Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.

Dreams are necessary to life.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish it's source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.

We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.

People living deeply have no fear of death.

I stopped loving my father a long time ago. What remained was the slavery to a pattern.

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.

The only abnormality is the incapacity to love.

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.